The Last Full Measure
by Thuggery
Summary: The rebellion on Mandalore has gone out of control. Vader's Fist has been deployed in hopes of restoring peace and order to the troubled planet.
1. Prologue

The Last Full Measure

* * *

Kelita River, Mandalore

Mandalore Sector, Outer Rim Territories

0720 Imperial Center Standard Hours

17 BBY

Things on Mandalore had reached a boiling point. Fenn Shysa and his rebel army had quite embarrassingly made fools of the Imperial garrison. They were singularly responsible for over eighty percent of all losses of Imperial materiel and personnel in a year. The other twenty were deserters from the clone population of garrison and the efforts of several smaller groups or individuals. With the introduction of the new planetary governor and a fresh garrison of troops from the foundling natural-born Imperial Army, the situation had seemed to be resolved.

But then the attacks restarted. Shysa had allied with another Mandalorian faction under one Kal Skirata, a wanted man. The terrorist actions escalated until the spine of the local infrastructure of the planet was shattered by a simultaneous commando raid on the Imperial-built power generators that had kept the planet's cities lit every night, as well as the Sundari and Keldabe regional government centers. Ninety-seven natural-born Imperial officers and enlisted and three hundred and ninety-three clone soldiers were killed in the attacks that destroyed any hope of supplying outlying Mandalorian settlements and camps with sustenance or power.

Enough was enough for Imperial High Command. By personal order of Emperor Palpatine, a battalion of the prestigious 501st Legion and a detachment of the elite Sixth Commando were deployed to Mandalore with specific orders to bring peace, order, and civilization back to the planet by any means necessary. Humanitarian and counter-insurgency operations began the moment they touched down.

"Hey, meat-buckets, armed speeders at your three," IC-4341 "Croaker" said.

Stormtrooper Sergeant TK-1831 "Meresk" turned to see what it was that the commando was talking about. They were flying high above the newly-built Kelita Food Distribution Center in one of the new MAAT/i gunships, pulling overwatch on a local convoy laden with needed food and supplies for the civilian populace. Those Mandalorian rebels weren't helping their position, the way that Meresk saw it. Imperial logistics were secure and remained un-attacked even with the introduction of the task force. All that the rebels were doing was destroying their own infrastructure. He sincerely hoped that the deserters that filled the ranks of the rebels weren't the ones making that decision. That would be downright idiotic, particularly for someone cut from the Fett genome.

But there they were. Three speeders raced across the beach toward the distribution point. Even without his new armor's hardware, he could pick out the armored figures manning pintle-mounted blaster cannons. The lead Mando was dressed in red-painted plates with jaig eyes and kama. The troopers had seen him before. Rumors had it that he was a clone deserter. An ARC who'd gone native.

Meresk heard the pilot over the common channel, "Command, this is Senth Six-One, we have likely hostiles likely to intercept one of the convoys. Permission to swing down and clear them up."

Croaker had already converted his modular DC-17m blaster carbine for long-range work with a few practiced movements. He was one of the true "life-timers" with the 501st like Meresk, decanted into a commando crèche ten years before the beginning of the Clone Wars like Meresk had been into the general trooper population. But just because they were chronologically the same age didn't mean they were _vode_, brothers. By his estimate, commandos were the wild boys of the clone army, proof of nurture over superior nature. But it didn't stop them from working together.

Raising his own DC-15 rifle, he flipped the scope up and tried to line up his first shot. The MAAT/i was much more stable than the old larties. Sighting in was easy for the sergeant, it was for all of the life-timers. None of the non-Kaminoan clones could even begin to compete with them. He had the helmet of the lead speeder driver under his crosshairs before their commander's voice responded.

"Senth Six-One, are you taking fire from them?"

"Uh, negative, Command."

"Do not engage then, Senth Six-One. That's the garrison's problem. Hold fire."

There was a noticeable pause before the pilot spoke. "Understood, Command. Senth Six-One is holding."

Meresk turned to look at Croaker, who shrugged. Usual politics at work then. The local garrison officers didn't like the presence of Vader's Fist in their territory and tried to stymie all of their attempts at area pacification. And the 501st commanders tended to return the favor with a general refusal to assist in the locals. A good number of the men of the 501st missed the old days of the Clone Wars where the clone armies were largely self-regulating. A Jedi commander issued a task and they set to work coming up with the best way to turn droids into scrap while accomplishing the task. But then the Jedi had gone rogue. What were the odds?

They still had natural-born officers though. By merit of not having come about thanks to a cloning vat, the lowest Imperial Army lieutenant outranked the seven clone commanders responsible for the running of the 501st's Seventh Battalion's companies. Unfortunately, their officers' unregulated spawning and upbringing tended to make them a touch slower than the clone officers who had been born and bred to wage war. That meant that the officers _usually_ followed protocol and worked under the direction of the commanders.

But Command was almost wholly clone-free. Colonel Sem Grisson kept Commander TS-0331 "Jenseth" around as an adviser and unofficial executive officer. Grisson was an all right sort of man. A veteran of the Clone Wars, he understood the value of a clone life. However that occasionally got in the way of decision-making. That and the politicking that pervaded the natural-born officer corps. It made a _vod_ pine for the old days.

So they watched through their helmet optics. The speeders blazed through the watchtowers, their laser cannons tearing apart the durasteel structures with sustained bursts. They saw fellow clones being cut down trying to respond. Meresk's gauntlet creaked as he made a fist. Politics. It was bound to get them all killed one day or another.

Croaker laid a hand on his shoulder. "_Vode_," he said. "Not our place, you know that."

"Tell that to them," Meresk responded, jerking a thumb to the chaos below them.

"Not our place," the commando said, shaking his head. "You know that."

He only grunted. The commando was right. Orders were orders. If they didn't follow their orders, what were they?

* * *

Chortav Meshurkaane, Keldabe, Mandalore

0719 Imperial Center Standard Hours

By all appearances, IC-1977 was just another clone deserter browsing through the wares of Market Day. "Hood" as he was nicknamed, was nothing of that sort. Despite his commandeered suit of _beskargam_, he was true to his roots. He was a commando, bred to be the best, bred to serve. These traitors had decided to desert the moment the war had ended. He had nothing in common with the other clones roaming the street fair. And he was after someone.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself a little. Hood had found browsing and shopping an odd comfort for him through his years away from Kamino. So many things were available to him. And what he couldn't purchase, he could creatively allocate. Commandos had been allowed a very small stipend to spend as they chose. Most spent it on extra or upgraded equipment since the regulations regarding the special forces units were a little looser. Hood liked spending it on small things. He wasn't one to say no to some new optics or a custom tune-up of his DC-15, but why not spend it on something nice? Buying outside food beat the garrison food by a whole lot. And the cities he could explore…

Keldabe wasn't the prettiest of the cities he'd been allowed to roam around in while on-mission. But it was a city built with a purpose. And that purpose happened to be to completely and utterly stymie any assault in force of the city. Invaders were faced with the prospect of close-quarters battle. Fighting in the streets, the alleyways, room to room, and in basements. And fighting in the basement was hardly a recipe for success. But it was certainly admirable of the locals. He had to admire their purity of purpose. He put down the extremely ornate _beskad_ and continued looking at the wares of the stall.

The trooper escort would be problematic. He inspected a piece of fine lace, his eyes flitting occasionally to his helmet's displays to track his target with the 360-degree field of vision. The wonders of military-grade electronics retrofitted to a traitor's armor. At least in death the _di'kut_ was helping their cause. But to think that they had come to this. Clone-on-clone violence had been unthinkable only three years ago. Now they had permission to take down rogue clones. Hood remembered his old training sergeant's feelings about the issue. Orders were orders. It wasn't the grunt's place to question them without particularly good reason.

"How much is this?" he asked the vendor in his best Sundari-accented _Mando'a_.

Whatever the vendor was saying was no longer his concern. A speeder had rolled up next to the target and her escort. Their ride. Time to get to work.

Crossing his arms, Hood turned away from the stall. The air pistol tucked under one armpit coughed once. Unseen and unheard by anyone in the clamoring crowds, it had launched a modified adhesive distress beacon no larger than a dirtbug. It would squawk every ten seconds on a very secure channel set up by the 501st Legion, giving away its location as well as whatever it had been attached to, which in this case was the rear bumper of the speeder. Very handy tool.

"Target acquired," he said into his helmet comlink, his words being instantly transmitted to the 501st facilities. "Target marked. They are on the move. Exfiltrating."

Endex for now. He smiled slightly in his helmet before melting into the Keldabe populace.

* * *

Northern Gate, Keldabe, Mandalore

0728 Imperial Center Standard Hours

They came in swiftly and brutally. Following the end of the war, many Low-Altitude Assault Transports near the end of their service lives had been given a second chance. They were upgunned, their chassis stripped down for speed, and even more weaponry had been added to make them over-qualified for both close air support as well as special forces transport. Four of them now descended upon the northern-most boundary-marker of Keldabe proper. Beyond it was untamed forest and wilderness with the occasional snaking path running through it all. They would have only one chance at this.

"Permission to engage," IC-9010 "Shug" stated flatly. "I don't think they're going to be stopping."

IC-3991 "Howe" sighed audibly from his perch at the middle of the gutted troop bay, his boots dangling in the air. "Go ahead."

A DC-17m's sniper configuration could fire a high-powered ion pulse through a meter of durasteel and still retain enough energy to turn an organic's head-analogue into a fine boiling mist of bone vapor and blood. Against the landspeeder's makeshift armor, it was overkill. Molten metal and polymer splashed out beneath the speeder as the bolt tore straight through the speeder's engine. There were other ways to skin a gurrcat, but sometimes the best way involved only using a _really_ sharp knife and a pinned gurrcat. Pity they were in the prisoner-taking business today.

The LAATs paced the speeder as it ground to a halt like vultures following a mortally wounded prey. In a way, they were. The commandos had prime seats to watch the sudden deceleration. They watched the nose of the engineless vehicle dip and dig into the barely-paved road. It then performed a forward-flip that transitioned nicely into a roll into the ditch at the side of the road. You couldn't pay for this kind of a performance.

Even as they watched, the LAATs were descending. Ten meters from the ground, the commandos grabbed hold of the handles hanging above their seats. They disengaged the restraints before kicking out of their seats. Six commandos dropped out through where the floor of the LAAT used to be, supported by only the rapidly unspooling cable attached to the handles.

They were already in motion before their boots had made full contact with the ground. Moving quickly, they surrounded the overturned speeder with their blasters trained in case the _di'kut_s tried doing something. Howe nodded to IC-9009 "Goj", who fired two bursts with his Deece. The bolts chewed away the lock on one of the passenger doors, old safety protocols automatically unlocking and opening the door. Howe then raised his own Deece and fired into the open door.

The PEP attachment discharged with a shockwave of light and sound as the actinic beam entered the speeder's interior. Anyone inside who wasn't at least as armored as the commandos were about to experience a sensation reminiscent of having a flashbang detonate a centimeter from their face while being stepped on by Alderaan's entire nerf population. Nobody was feeling particularly sympathetic, but they were wholly familiar with the sensation. Their training tended to be _very_ realistic.

"Okay, take them," Howe said, waving for the rest of the team.

Their gauntlet vibroblades made quick work of the other doors and the commandos were soon dragging dazed figures out of the overturned speeder while restraining them with basic binders around their wrists. At Howe's signal, the commandos flipped their new prisoners to lie on their backs while they removed their helmets. Time for some confirmation of capture.

Five humans, all but the target and one other wearing some form of body armor. That obviously hadn't helped. But this looked like a prime catch with four deserters captured in one fell swoop. One of them looked familiar even with the _beskargam_. Howe waved IC-4492 over for a chat over private comms.

"Wex, isn't that-?"

"You got that right, Sarge," Wex said, some anticipation in his voice. "You want the honors?"

"'Course."

Kneeling down, he activated his helmet's image-capture function to get some good footage of their prisoners. With that done there was still the official business to take care of.

"Citizen Besany Wennen, you are hereby arrested on Imperial authority for counts of murder, sedition, and espionage against the state," he said, the vocoder of his helmet distorting his voice into neutrality. It also stripped away the excitement and anticipation that he felt. He shared a glance with Wex before continuing on to the one they had a personal interest in. "Nice day to go for a drive with the bucket off, eh?" he asked the clone.

The clone looked defiantly back up at him, his dyed and cut hair looked horribly artificial in the sunlight. He looked like he had some knife-work done on him. Probably enough to fool biometric scanners. "And your point is?"

"Just trying to have a civilized conversation," Howe said, hitching his Deece on his thigh-plate. "You know, before we summarily execute your traitorous _shebs_."

The traitor fell right into it. "What did I do to you?"

"Funny you should mention it," he said. He disengaged the seals of his helmet and pulled it off.

The sunlight revealed the long and wide mottled red streak that ran along the right side of his face. He could see the shock of recognition in the traitor's eyes.

He smiled. "_Su'cuy_, Cov?"

Then he raised his boot and brought it down on his face.

* * *

**Author's Rant:** Hey kids! Finally some Star Wars! Free e-cookie for whoever guesses what I'm basing this story on!


	2. Chapter 1

_City of Bone Imperial Garrison Detention Center, Keldabe outskirts, Mandalore_

_0809 Imperial Center Standard Hours_

Colonel Sem Grisson didn't consider himself to be a speciesist. He'd worked for years before the Empire with hundreds of different lifeforms in service to the Republic. But this new planetary administrator made him more than slightly uneasy. Tall and reptilian with purple scales and visible fangs, the guy didn't look like someone he wanted his daughter bringing home for caf and cakes. It was something like finding out little Mari had eloped with a Trandoshan.

"Administrator, I'm sure that we can handle this interrogation without your help," he said to the alien. "This is strictly a Five-Oh-First matter. You don't need to be involved."

"On the contrary," the administrator said. "I find that any business that happens on Mandalore to be _my_ business."

It certainly would be. He even spoke like some cheesy holovid reptilian monster with all of those sibilant hisses and lisping Basic. Grisson would have almost considered the administrator to be a joke if it weren't for the fact that he maintained control over the planet's booming slave trade. The purple scaly looked like a perfect rear echelon mother fracker. In all of his years, he had never met someone quite so _soft_. Most of the command staff barring the ones under the commando detachment were natural-born and young. He missed having experienced officers under him, even _if_ they happened to be non-human. Unlike the new guys, he didn't mind working with them at all. Damn shame about it.

"Colonel," the administrator said. "You have been after this 'Kal Skirata' for six weeks now, with nothing to show for it."

"I'd say this is something to show," Grisson said, stopping in front of the cell. He looked in through the one-way transparisteel. "Besany Wennen, formerly of the Republic Treasury. She went rogue a week or so before the end of the war. Last associated with Kal Skirata and clone deserters. Rumors have it that she's _married_ to one of the deserters."

"And you think that just because you have her, Skirata will give up?"

"Oh no, sir," Grisson said wryly. "But she knows where he sleeps. She probably handles the majority of his finances as well. He'll feel her loss before long."

They stopped in front of the two-way mirror to look in on their capture. Besany Wennen looked something like a galactic model in a pigsty. Life on Mandalore had taken its toll, but she still had a memorable face. That was, of course, a drawback in this sort of work. It only gave the interrogators another angle to work. Which it looked like they had. It looked like typical Imperial Security Bureau work, too. Damn it.

"I'll handle this," Grisson told the administrator through clenched teeth, barely suppressing his anger. "I'm sure you have more important things to see to rather than attend an interrogation. I'll let you know the moment we get anything out of her."

"See that you do," the administrator said. It paused for a second. "Ah, Colonel, I hope there is no ill feeling between us about my usage of specialists to question her, is there?"

"No, Administrator. There isn't."

He keyed the door open. Time to see if there was anything to salvage out of _this_ fiasco.

* * *

_City of Bone Imperial Garrison Landing Pad, Keldabe outskirts, Mandalore_

_0946 Imperial Center Standard Hours_

"I'm telling you, _ori'osik_ is not a real word," Senth Six-Four's pilot, TP-1961/237 "Dornenth" said, laughing as he brought his MAAT/i gunship down to land on the tarmac.

"And I say it is," TP-1965/44 "Creshwar" responded as he landed his own gunship, Senth Six-One right next to Dornenth's. "Tell you what, _vod_," he said, smiling. "How about we take this up with one of the prisoners?"

"You know I'm right! Stop trying to change the subject!"

Creshwar laughed when he caught sight of Dornenth's splayed-finger hand gesture through the cockpit glass. Cheeky. His copilot had already opened the hatches to allow the load of 501st troopers out while they chatted. Even in peacetime, life-timers were being slowly replaced. The new guys weren't _bad_, but they were strange. The 501st aviation element's gunships still mostly worked around the basic two-veteran crew, but Creshwar had drawn the short straw when it came to the monthly shuffle of assignments. TP-3321/55 wasn't too bad, but a little too idealistic for his taste. Emperor this, Empire that. Probably never heard of leave, either.

On the brighter side, the garrison came stocked with plenty of the local-brewed _ne'tra gal_ that was carefully screened to make sure the locals didn't slip something fascinating in. And it wasn't like the officers hadn't brought their own special stores with them either. Plus there was the issue that the communal genome had been sculpted to minimize the effects of intoxication. When the water filtration systems were constantly being blown by the locals, you learned real quick to get used to the sickly-sweet taste of the local hooch. Better tasting than the water, and less likely to make you excrete your organs.

"Hey, you see the newbie?" Dornenth asked as the two pilots met up in front of their gunships. He jerked a thumb at the newcomer still looking around.

"Neg," Creshwar said, shaking his helmeted head. "Heard about him, though."

"Chatty _shabuir_."

"Yeah? Hey, check this out," Creshwar said, laying a hand on Dornenth's shoulder plate as he turned to look at the new guy.

"Don't, you're going to scare him, _vod_," Dornenth said, shaking slightly with repressed laughter.

"Hey, meat!" Creshwar called out loud rather than over comms.

The mannerisms of the new guy made him ridiculously obvious even without his pristine white armor. He'd never been on a live battlefield or even the closest simulation on Kamino. If the rumors were right, he'd gotten into the program thanks to his parentage, much like the general officer corps of their lovely Empire. A natural-born stormtrooper. Who'd have thought it?

"Uh, yeah?" the kid said, turning sharply at his voice. "Can I help you?"

"See? What'd I tell you?" Dornenth said over comms, a smile obvious in his voice and body language. "Nothing, trooper," he said out loud. "Administration's _that_ way," he said, pointing out the squat gray buildings. "Tell TK-1791 that 237 says hello, eh?"

"Uh, will do," the rookie said, turning and walking away. "Thanks!"

"What'd I say?" Creshwar asked rhetorically. "What did I say?"

Dornenth chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, and if the meat remembers what you called him and reports that to a natural-born officer? We're grounded for the foreseeable future."

"Hey, reasonable sacrifice," Creshwar said. "Now how about getting some chow before I have to pick up our wayward commando?"

"You're on."

* * *

_Eastern Gate, Keldabe, Mandalore_

_1044 Imperial Center Standard Hours_

Stripping the Mando armor off, IC-1977 "Hood" stood out in the burned-out clearing wearing only his underlayer. He leaned against the side of the speederbike and admired the work of a determined ball gunner with a collimated laser array. It was a near-perfect circle, the MAAT pilot had probably dropped down and spun in place to let his gunners work. Either way, the clearing stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the greenery.

Sure enough came the thrumming of his new ride. The MAAT/i looked a lot like the old larties, at least before the larties had been converted. Same chunky lines, almost the same armament, their repulsor drives sounded just about the same. The only real difference was the change in livery.

The MAAT/i swung in low, the hatches sliding open as he walked out to it and the waiting arms of his brothers. Hood tossed his bundled armor in first, followed by himself.

"_Su'cuy_!" IC-3991 "Howe" shouted as they hauled him aboard. "I think you're missing these!" he said, offering him a set of proper armor. "It doesn't really beat _beskar_, but…"

"Durasteel _osik_," Hood responded, slapping the jury-rigged Mandalorian armor. "I got presents for the lot of you!" He handed IC-9009 "Goj" a second bag. "Try not to eat it all in one go!"

Goj whooped as he started pulling a veritable treasure trove of dried meats out. "Yeah? And we got a present for you! Guess who we picked up on the snatch?"

"Skirata?" Hood had to shout as the MAAT/i took off. "Shysa?"

"Better!" IC-9010 "Shug" shouted, his helmet off to reveal his grin. "We got Cov!"

They said Mandalorians could play the long game when it came to grudges. They had nothing against men cut from the enriched Fett genome. Hood grinned back as he started fitting his plates on. "No lie? Bralor's Cov?"

"No lie, _vod_!"

Best news he'd heard. Strapping his chest plate on securely, Hood only needed to pull his helmet on. With that on, he was back in his element. Nobody had touched his presets either, so it was like sliding back into a comfortable shell after a long time away. Flicking his wrist, he snapped his armor's knuckle-plate blade out. All in working order. Now the commandos had a little appointment at the garrison detention center…

* * *

_City of Bone Imperial Garrison Detention Center, Keldabe outskirts, Mandalore_

_1026 Imperial Center Standard Hours_

There were probably some more sanitary ways of cleaning, but Sem Grisson always rather liked the feeling of cold running water over his hands. He shook his hands and turned the tap off before drying his hands on the offered towel.

"Anything out of her, sir?" TS-0331 "Jenseth" asked as he took back the towel.

_ She glared at him, rubbing her newly-released wrists. "You'll never find them."_

_ Grisson grimaced, the ISB interrogators had taken their pound of flesh from her. Angry red blotches where someone had taken a stun baton to her skin repeatedly. Most of her clothes had been cut and slashed away, whatever blade they were using cutting skin as well. Restrained to the chair, she'd taken it rather well. Of course, there was her past before falling in with the locals to take into account._

_ "Look, Miss Wennen," he said as gently as possible. "Is there anything I can get for you? Water? Something to clean yourself up with?"_

_ "Go kark yourself, imp."_

_ He sighed. Typical. He'd heard reports from other commanders in the field about these sorts. Rebels without a cause. It was strange to see to what lengths some people went to just to prove their independence. He'd trust clone reliability any day._

_ "Ma'am, I've read your dossier," he said, kneeling down in front of her. "Republic Treasury Auditor. Several commendations for deep-cover operations. Volunteered for resistance training. I'm not here to hit you. I'd just like some questions answered if at all possible."_

_ A mixture of blood and saliva hit his face. At least she wasn't trying to strangle him. That might have been unpleasant. Wiping the blood off his gaunt cheekbones, he walked over to one of the sealed drawers and input the code to unlock it. Removing the small injector, he cautiously approached Wennen with it._

_ "Kolto-sedative suspension," he said. "It'll ease the pain, speed up your recovery. May I?"_

_ When she didn't respond or shy away, he gingerly took her arm and pressed the tip of the injector into the crook of her arm. The injector hissed once as it pumped in its payload. Almost immediately, Grisson could see her begin to relax. She looked almost the same age as Teva. He knelt down to look at her. Her eyes stayed clear. Good._

_ He'd told a half-truth. The injector had been loaded with a cocktail of cilona extract, kolto, and a dozen analgesics, sedatives, and metabolizers. Most interrogators didn't use it, citing lack of "stimulus" for truth-telling. Grisson found it as the humane way of asking questions. The cocktail would leave her in a blissful narcosis and make her more open to questioning. He waited a minute before starting._

_ "Where is Kal Skirata?" he asked._

_ "I'll never tell you," she said, her words slurring slightly as her head bobbed drowsily. "Never. We'll drive you from the planet before that happens…"_

_ "Fair enough," Grisson said with a nod and slight smile. "You know, Wennen, you remind me of my oldest."_

_ "Oldest?"_

_ "My daughter Teva," he said. "She'd enlisted in the Borderless Aid group at seventeen." He smiled fondly. "Went out to see the galaxy, sending back videos and stills of where they went…"_

_ "And?"_

_ His smile disappeared. "Hostage incident. Mercenaries took their ship hostage. Two day siege until the commandos finally got in with a Mandalorian 'consultant.' It had carried a complement of seventy aid workers. Twenty of them lived. She wasn't one of them." He looked closely at her. "If I may ask, are you married to one of the clones?"_

_ "Yes," she slurred. "I'm sorry, about your daughter."_

_ "Ancient history," he said, shaking his head. "It's fascinating, though. Not the marriage issue, but just that you'd considered whichever clone to be human."_

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "It's the one thing I find absolutely fascinating about civilians. Always have. Soldiers are always impersonal faces to them. Even with casualty reports, they don't really care about the losses, or the men," Grisson said. "Clones only make the problem worse. We've created a world where war becomes mundane. Impersonal. Just business. Where people don't care about the losses as long as they get what they want. Anyone and everyone. I have to send my men into combat knowing some of them are not going to make it back. But you? 'Hey, _adi'ke_.' 'Yes, _buir_?' 'How do we strike at the heart of the oppressors today?' 'I don't know…Ooooh! Over there! Let's send our boys to blow up a food distribution point!' 'And let's shoot anyone who gets in the way! They're not real Mandos, just clones!'"_

_ Wennen shook her head. "That's not true, Kal-"_

_ He cut her off. "Kal Skirata? The same Kal Skirata working with Shysa, organizing attacks on my men? The _great_ Kal Skirata whose little army has been gunning down aid workers trying to provide food for the local population? The _almighty_ Kal Skirata who decided to save only the clones he liked?" He snorted. "Father to his men? Yeah, I can admire that. Too bad he wasn't a father to more of the men. Somewhat hypocritical, don't you think? Is there a belief quanta of what makes you worthy of being 'saved' by the Mandalorians? What allows your beloved Kal be ever so qualified to pass judgment on the masses?"_

_ "You're being unfair," she said. "Kal knows that they're clones."_

_ Grisson nodded. "And he can live with that. I can admire that. The day I don't see faces is the day that I hand in my commission. Clones are materiel are men. They're the one thing you can rely upon in these troubled times. Loyalty is repaid with loyalty. I will keep my command safe." He shook his head. "Just try to remember that when you plan your next 'bold strike against the oppressors.' You can't run forever._

_ "And on that note, our holding facilities aren't suitable for keeping you, and the prison barges generally don't visit Mandalore, so we have this instead." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small vial that he loaded into the injector. Before she could react, he pressed it against her exposed trapezius. There was a hiss as the payload was injected. "That would a low-powered tracer filament run on thermal waste that I just implanted," he said. "If you leave Keldabe without notifying us, or try to remove it, the filament will overload and you will have three milligrams of norbutal pumped into your bloodstream as well as a signal back to us about where you are. It won't kill you, but you'll be immobilized for the better part of a day." He turned away to open the door. "We can and will release you as soon as you want. Stay in touch, we will need to ask some questions."_

"Mostly confirmations," Grisson said. "Are our technicians done with the rummage?"

"Just about, sir," Jenseth said.

"Have the results piped up to my office with the actual materiel."

"Ah, Command's been asking questions, sir. They want results."

"Tell them- You know what? I'll tell them myself. Thank you, Jenseth."

"For what, sir?" the commander looked at him oddly as he opened the turbolift door for him.

"Everything, I suppose," Grisson said after a moment as the doors hissed shut.

* * *

_City of Bone Imperial Garrison Administration Cluster, Keldabe outskirts, Mandalore_

_1004 Imperial Center Standard Hours_

The central administration office looked like any other in the Empire, prefabricated with the rest of the garrison. Air circulators sluggishly churned the warm air to maintain circulation as a half dozen officers and clone personnel worked at desks.

"Identification," Stormtrooper Sergeant TK-1791 "Dust" said flatly. "And take your helmet off, you're- Huh." His eyebrow went up. "Name?"

"Taye."

"_Last_ name?"

"Burne," the new meat said, standing at a near-perfect parade rest. "So what was it like?"

"What was what like?" Dust asked as he filled in the new entry.

"The Clone Wars, the fighting," Burne said.

"Identification code?"

"721-63427. TK-4410."

"Firstly, it's the _Wars_," Dust said, talking while typing. "Or the war. Nobody calls it that here. Secondly, I'm not too well-versed on the fighting, so don't ask."

"Why not?" Burne asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Did what I just said not register?" Dust asked, looking up.

"You're one of the new batches?" the meat said more than asked.

Dust stopped typing.

"I'm a life-timer. I was on Geonosis and Coruscant. I'm a veteran, my natural-born friend."

"In combat?"

"You're new here, so let me explain something to you," Dust said, his hands undoing his gauntlet plate seals. "I've got a strange and mysterious skill called typing that precludes me from heading out. That, and these," he pulled his plates off to reveal two brushed durasteel hands.

"You're maimed," Burne said, face falling slightly.

"I can _type_," Dust said. "But that too. Commander saw fit to shuffle my wounded _shebs_ into a back-up role a month before Coruscant." He resumed typing. "Okay, got your files on record here. Happy eighteenth birthday, trooper."

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**Author's Rant:** Well, finally updated this one. Feel free to comment, rant, shout, or whatever.


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